


The Bullet's Loop

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Angst, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, John's POV, The Reichenbach Fall, War flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:50:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walking with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. Death is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bullet's Loop

_Crawling across the ground, the feel of the sand giving way under his boots, shouting in the distance, shouting in his ear, shouting drowned out by the bullets-_

Sitting in the seat, the leather shifting under his weight, tapping anxiously, waiting, impatient. The sound of a phone ringing, his phone, the click as he picks up, the deep voice on the other end.

_Shouting, more shouting, more bangs as people die, dropping out of sight out of the corner of his eyes. Death following, bellowing along the field-_

**Stay where you are,** he seems to bellow again, Death finding his way back, back to haunt him, back to destroy him. 

_Orders called, lost in the din, lost like the soldiers who’ve lost their lives. Lost, lost, everyone’s lost, just keep moving forward, keep firing, never looking back, never looking at all, there’s too much to see-_

A demand, an order, **keep your eyes on me,** never looking away, never looking back, only up, straight up into the sun as it beats down and bars the view, and he’s lost in the light, everything’s so hard to see.

_A watchful eye, but apparently too blind, because here it comes, too late to stop it, too late to dodge it-_

**Leave a note,** and suddenly the idea forms and he can’t push it away anymore, and without thinking he’s looking back to see if there was something to give it away, a sign, anything.

_The bullet pulls through air, pulls as much as it can take, pulling his skin, his shoulder as it pierces through him-_

He throws the phone, and there’s the sound of it shattering, but it’s all in his head because all he can hear is his scream.

_And suddenly the pain comes, the bullet’s accompaniment, orchestrator of events that circle infinitely, and it feels like his shoulder has been mauled into pieces, but thankfully it’s missed his heart-_

His heart shatters as the air is ripped apart, as all he can see is falling, as Death stands laughing over his shoulder, the silent audience of two in this opera, the bullet somehow looping back to hit his heart.

_He’s falling now, hits the ground, his shoulder searing, his vision blurred, and the noise getting just a little bit quieter-_

Thank god, his feet are somehow moving, even if he thought he’d be routed to the spot, because the only thing that he can hear is the crunch of bones against pavement echoing in his head, and he doesn’t realize until he’s hit the ground that his bones crunched, too, that he was hit and fell. 

_There’s the ground now, it's caught him, it's holding him, swallowing him, swallowing the pain, the battlefield, swallowing everything around him now, but he still sees, still hears, still holds on but he doesn’t know why-_

And when he should’ve been broken he’s getting up again, pushing past the pain that’s haunting his shoulder, reaching out for his friend, holding onto his wrist.

_The stench of blood invades his nose, overwhelming even if he’s used to it, and he realizes it’s his blood, pouring out of his shoulder, swamping the ground beneath him, drowning in the sand, and he’s drowning with it-_

He doesn’t recognize the blood at first, refuses to acknowledge the injury, instead clamps and prays for there to be a pulse, but there’s blood everywhere and it takes him a moment to realize he’s not bleeding, it’s not his, no matter how much it feels like his heart is pouring it everywhere.

_Pulling from the corners, the blackness comes, and he tries to hold on, tries to fight it off, doesn’t let his head fall, doesn’t let himself fade, he won’t let himself die-_

No matter how hard he wishes, he can’t find the pulse, it’s not there, his heart’s not beating, and so he falls because he can feel the blackness coming back, feel that weight pressing him down because he’s dead.

_But then it does and he can’t hear or see or smell anything anymore, just feel the blood pooling around him as his head sinks back into the ground, sinks back into the swell of blood-_

And all that’s left is the feeling of a warm hand, warm blood, no sight or smell, not being able to register whether he’s leaning against bodies or floor, just an image haunting him, not even the black of death.

_And even as his eyes close he can still feel that small spark fighting to stay alive-_

And after years of fighting, he can feel that small spark finally die.


End file.
